


shrines of some

by crumbsfiction



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Pre-Auction, too many literature references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-08-07 06:32:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7704112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crumbsfiction/pseuds/crumbsfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haise has never gifted poetry to anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shrines of some

As the clock drags towards closing time, the bookstore empties out, one customer after the next leaving with the jingle of a bell. The woman at the cash register looks tired but still gives Haise and Saiko a small smile and a nod as they pass her spot at the front of the shop for the third or fourth time. 

“I want to go home,” Saiko whines, somewhere near Haise’s elbow.

“Just a little bit longer,” Haise promises. “I’m almost done.”

Saiko gives an exaggerated sigh. “Why can’t you just do this tomorrow? They’re closing soon anyway.”

“The meeting is tomorrow, remember. I have to have this finished by then.” Haise gently strokes his fingertips across the still unbroken backs of dusty paperbacks. As they round the corner to another section of the store, Saiko speaks again.

“What meeting are you even talking about? There are no more meetings until next week.”

“There are. I’ve already told you about it this morning, remember?”

Saiko hums, dragging her hand through one of her pigtails. Her thick hair falls in waves, moving and bouncing along with her as she spins around, overhead lights reflecting in what looks like an endless river of fine strands flowing down her back.

“I’m not going.” She bounds ahead, her short frame disappearing behind a shelf of travel guides. Panama, Laos, Dubai. Sunny places, far removed from the bitter chill of Tokyo in autumn.

“You are,” Haise calls after her, coming to a stop in front of a shelf of poetry collections. He choses a book at random and flips it open, the pages rustling under his calloused fingers.

Haise has never gifted poetry to anyone. The phrases that have dug themselves into his brain, the stanzas he whispers to himself over and over when sleep evades him – how is he supposed to know if someone else would think the same of them as he does? And if they didn’t – if they saw only meaningless words jumbled together into an incomprehensible mess – what would he do then?

 

_I felt a Funeral, in my Brain_

_And Mourners to and fro_

 

“Maman.” Saiko reappears, carrying two magazines in her hands. Weekly serials, Haise guesses, and eyes the action-packed artwork on the covers. “Can I have these?”

“You can buy them for yourself,” he replies. “You earn your own money now, don’t you?”

She stalks off again, deflated, and Haise turns his attention back to the book.

 

_Kept treading – treading – till it seemed_

_That Sense was breaking through_

 

No. This won’t do. Haise snaps the book shut, putting it back on its place on the shelf. He turns instead towards the section of classics, choosing Hemingway over Soseki and heading towards the tired-looking shop assistant by the cashier.

Saiko slides her magazines along with a thick wad of brightly coloured stickers across the counter just as Haise fishes his wallet out of his bag, her eyes bright and innocent. Haise sighs but pays anyway, accepting his plastic bag of items with a smile and an apology for keeping the assistant for so long.

“Make sure to wear your scarf,” Haise tells Saiko as the door swings shut with a jingle behind them. “It’s getting cold.”

(If they saw the same meaning in poems as Haise, felt the sentences resonate within them the same way he does, gasping for air like a drowning man when the words are just too beautiful to bear– what then?)

-

Arima’s office is tucked away in a distant corner of one of the upper floors of the building, far from the hustle and liveliness of the labyrinth of cubicles downstairs. It’s always just a bit darker than Haise expects, the heavy curtains usually drawn closed, shutting out the spectacular view of the city expanding around and beneath them.

A few items are carefully lined up on his desk. A Montblanc fountain pen balanced precariously against its stand, a industrial-looking white desk lamp, a few scattered notebooks. The setup never changes much - only sometimes the desk is covered with more paperwork, sometimes less.

“I finished the last one,” Arima tells him, pulling a book from the top drawer and sliding it across the surface of his desk. “Thank you.”

Haise smiles, picking the book up and holding it between two hands. This is the closest thing to a tradition he has been able to shape during his few years of life and he clings to it, even though he knows nothing of Arima’s thoughts on the matter. Sharing a book with someone else is like sharing a part of your mind with them and he wants to know, to see, to understand – 

“Did you like it?”

This too, is tradition. _Tell me what you think. Did you like it? Dislike it? Was there a part where you had to catch your breath, walk in a circle around the room, put it down and pick it back up again? Did you read it in one sitting or space it out over the week? Was there a place you hated? Tell me, tell me, please God tell me what you think. I just want to know._

“It was…” Haise holds his breath. “Good.”

Ah, yes.

“I’m glad,” Haise says, still smiling. “I have another one for you, if you like.”

“Yes.”

The books are always returned to him in mint condition. There are no bookmarks tucked inside, no creased pages where eager fingers flipped too fast, no coffee rings on the covers. Once or twice the corner of a page has been folded down to mark a spot and Haise scanned them up and down, searching for anything that might have caught his superior’s interest. So far he has found nothing. Maybe they’re only there to mark the spot Arima last left off. 

“I haven’t read this since…” _Cochlea_ , stands unspoken, and Haise presses on, “for a while, but I think you’ll enjoy it. It’s a story about war, but there are hopeful parts as well…” 

He trails off, unsure, already meek voice fading into nothingness. _Kept treading – treading –_

“I’ll make time for it this week. You can have it back after that, if that’s all right,” Arima says.

Haise shakes his head, quickly. “No- I mean, that’s all right, but you can keep it. I have another copy at the Chateau.”

For a second, Arima just stares, before looking down at the book in front of him.

“That’s,” he starts, “unnecessary.”

“It’s alright,” Haise promises, fumbling for a smile or something resembling one to plaster on, the same way he does whenever the members of his squad are fighting between them at home. “It’s a gift.”

“Then, thank you,” Arima says.

“It’s nothing,” Haise says, and turns his eyes down, scanning the checkerboard floor. “Please don’t think anything of it.”

-

“What is it this week?” Mutsuki asks from his spot at the kitchen table. He’s curled up and perched in an odd crouch on his chair, like a bird with hollow bones, ready for flight. His socked toes are moving nervously as he taps on his phone with one hand and cradles a cup of cooling tea with the other.

Haise idly wonders what’s keeping his subordinate so occupied with his phone lately. Texting – but who? Then he remembers Associate Special Class Suzuya, and the way Mutsuki’s step seemed just a tad lighter after their joint practice sessions.

“I haven’t decided,” Haise tells him. “I was thinking about this one,” he continues, picking a thick volume out of his bag.

“Looks heavy,” Mutsuki comments. “What’s it about?”

“It’s actually a children’s book,” Haise says, stroking the purple cover. “About rabbits.”

“Rabbits?”

Haise smiles at the surprise in Mutsuki’s voice and continues, almost shyly. “I know it sounds strange, but it really is. Rabbits, who have to leave their home behind to flee from humans… Humans coming to wipe out the beautiful place where they used to live.”

Mutsuki writes out another message on his phone. “Do you only lend him sad books to read?” He asks, then catches himself. “Ah, I don’t mean anything by it –“

“No, you’re right,” Haise says. “Maybe I’ll pick something else. I have a feeling he won’t like this one, anyway.”

-

He starts and fights an impossible battle against the cold creeping along the edges of the Chateau, turning the heat up as far as it can go and wrapping his squad members in knitted scarfs and mittens to protect them from the flu season Haise knows is just around the corner.

Urie scoffs as Saiko huddles into her gifts with a content sigh. His feigned indifference builds tension within the glass walls of their shared mansion like a storm brewing within a greenhouse - eventually the windows will shatter and glass shards will rain down upon them as some divine punishment for their lack of teamwork, but not yet. There is time, Haise has to believe.

“The least thing you can do is say thanks, dipshit,” Shirazu snaps, and Haise reaches, once again, for a readily available smile.

“It’s alright,” he says, “Keeping warm doesn’t really fit Urie’s style, does it?”

“He’s too busy pretending to be a tough guy,” Saiko sing-songs. “I hope his ears turn blue and fall off!”

“Saiko,” Haise says, reprimanding. “Be nice.”

“Maman,” she says, equally serious in tone. “I’m always nice. Aren’t I, Mucchan?”

Mutsuki smiles timidly, trying his new beanie on with great care. “Of course, Saiko.”

“See?” she says, triumphantly. “Mucchan thinks I’m the best!”

Later, at a small coffee shop, Haise retells the story with a cup of dark roast between his clasped hands. 

“Kids sure aren’t easy to deal with, huh?” He says, half joking, half serious.

“You’re not much older than them,” Arima replies. “It’s a lot of responsibility.”

“But it’s my responsibility,” Haise says, exasperated. “I’m supposed to take care of them, mentor them, but it just won’t – “ He cuts himself off, fingers digging into the handle of his cup.

“Haise,” Arima says, and he looks up. Glacial eyes, framed by thick lashes darker than oilspills, run through by snowy white. To Haise, those eyes are the most familiar sight on this earth. 

There is a beat of silence where no one speaks. The coffee shop keeps moving around them, customers chatting and laughing, a radio playing in the background, a dog barking on the street – but it’s all happening in a different world, a galaxy far away where everything is different, ordinary. Haise dreams of that world, dreams of reaching out to touch it, the world where there are no battles to fight or orders to give, only him and Arima and the books they’ve shared between them. 

An ordinary life, a peaceful life, filled with ordinary and peaceful people.

If he could just reach out to touch - 

“Haise,” Arima repeats, and the bubble pops. Sound and light comes flooding back in, invading all his senses at once. “You were staring into space.”

“Sorry,” Haise says, taking a shaky sip of coffee.

“Keep working with them as you are doing now,” Arima says. “They will come around to it.”

As they exit the shop, Haise notices the lack of scarf around Arima’s neck.

“It’s getting colder by the day this time of year, you should, “ he starts, before noticing the way the usually neat knot of Arima’s tie is slightly askew. His hands move by themselves, the urge to nourish, fix, take care of so ingrained in his bones he has no way to stop his own movements before he feels silk between his fingers, expensive fabric brushing against his already frozen palms.

The knot slides into place and he takes a step back.

“I’m so sorry,” Haise says, blood rising to his cheeks. “I don’t…”

“I should,” Arima says. “I should, what?”

Haise looks up. “Huh?”

“You were saying something. I should…”

“Oh.” Haise fiddles with the hem of his coat. “Stay warm.”

Arima clears his throat, once. “Yes.”

“Well, then.” Haise glances at the ground, the sky, anywhere but his superior’s face. “I’ll see you next week.”

And in that far off world, the one he’s unable to reach, Haise closes the distance between them, pressing kisses into the corner of Arima’s mouth, the space just beneath his cheekbone, the expanse of his pale neck, exposed to the autumn chill. His eyelids, so tired and heavy from endless overwork. His hands, large and calloused from a life of nothing but battle and endlessly spilled blood. In a different world, Haise holds those hands across the table at busy coffee shops and reads him his favourite poems in the dim light of a bedside lamp, reaches out to touch, to touch, and to be touched in return.

This is not what happens.

Arima gives him the briefest of smiles, barely noticeable, and a polite nod.

“Yes. See you then, Haise.”

 

_And I dropped down, and down_

_And hit a World, at every plunge_

_And finished knowing – then_

-

“Do you need help with anything?” The shop assistant asks, the same petite woman as last time. Her eyes are brighter now, in the early hours of the day.

“Thank you,” Haise says, “but I’m just browsing.”

And browse he does. Scans every shelf top to bottom, turns familiar books over and over in his hands, walks laps around shelves still carrying them, turns around to put them back.

_No, no no. Not this one. Not this one either, no. It’s all wrong. Not this one. No, no._

Christmas snuck up on them all, sending jolt of activity and emotion though the Chateau. Saiko wrapping and posting packages for her internet friends across the world, Shirazu hiding his pained expression whenever someone in the office mentioned getting gifts for their siblings. Mutsuki shyly asking Haise for help with baking something for Suzuya’s squad together, Urie disappearing to the gym for hours after adding nothing but lean chicken and non-fat almond milk to the grocery list.

In the end, Haise leaves the bookstore empty handed, a rare occurrence. 

What could someone like Arima possibly wish for?

He spots the jewellery store from across the street and checks both ways before jumping the safety fence and jogging to the other side. The tie pin is cold in his palm, but in his mind's eye he can imagine Arima wearing it, tucked safe against his chest. 

_Don’t assume,_ he tells himself, _don’t assume he’ll like it. Don’t assume he’ll ever wear it. Don’t assume a single thing about Arima Kishou._

But a horse – for knighthood, for power and grace. For strength and for freedom. 

It could work.

 _Don’t assume,_ whisper the voices in his head, but the metal already feels less cold as he cradles the pin in his hand, chilly metal warmed by his pulse.

He stuffs the gift-wrapped package into his coat pocket and holds the box tight as he walks the few blocks back to the Chateau.

-

“For me?”

Haise’s voice is coloured by surprise as he holds the package between his gloved hands.

“It’s more of a New Years gift by now, but, ah.” Arima trails off, hanging his coat over the back of his chair.

“You didn’t have to – “ Haise starts, curiosity tugging at his mind, making his fingers twitch. 

“It’s nothing,” Arima says, the faintest smile on his lips. “Please, don’t think anything of it.”

Haise peels the wrapping paper with careful movements, folds the paper and puts it next to him on the table. He pushes his burning desire to know aside, tries to cherish every second of this moment, one that may never come again.

The book is light in his hands, almost like it’s hollow, and as he flips it open he sees the scarcely printed words scattered across the bleached pages. 

“How,” Haise starts, “did you know I love poetry?”

Arima shifts, looking at the steaming cup of black coffee in front of him.

“Just… a guess,” he says. “An educated guess, if you will.”

Haise smiles. “A very good guess,” he says, carefully turning the pages with all the carefulness of someone holding diamonds in their palms. “Thank you.”

Silence falls between them, an odd silence that Haise can’t interpret. He’s used to the awkward beats, the moments of free falling, so unsure of what he should say or do.

There seems to be lead coating Arima’s tongue, like there’s something he wants to say, but can’t. Haise watches him struggle from across the table, furrowing and unfurrowing his brow.

“Haise –“

“It’s alright,” Haise says. “Whatever it is, it’s alright.”

There is another beat of silence in which Arima visibly relaxes, broad shoulders sinking back against his seat, tension leaving his neck. 

Haise fiddles nervously with his gift. “Do you… do you want me to read something aloud?” 

“Please, if you will.”

Reaching a hand into his bag for his reading glasses, Haise smiles.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll make sure to pick a good one.”

He reopens the book and clears his throat.

**Author's Note:**

> haise is so great to write... if you catch any of the literature/poetry references in this, hello, i love you. the book about rabbits is, of course, watership down. get it, get it???? because kirishimas……… ok
> 
> thank you for reading, as usual you can find me on tumblr at jsuya@tumblr.com o)-)


End file.
